


Fucking Profiteroles

by Random_Nexus



Series: "Fucking Baked Goods" - Sherlock BBC [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Bisexuality, First Time, Homosexuality, Humor, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pastry abuse, Prompt Fic, Sequel, Sherlock's Never Going To Let This Go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-23 07:51:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11985456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Sherlock has brought home some 'special pastries' in the same style as the cake from "Fucking Cake" for his and John's anniversary, but a sudden murder case pulls them away.  The pastries are left out, so when Mycroft stops by not long after they've gone... and then Greg swings by a bit later... well, of course hijinx are going to ensue.Written for the Prompt:  "I wish you would write a fic where..."Fucking Profiteroles" becomes the unavoidable sequel to Fucking Cake!" -Blackmorganon Tumblr





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I'd had plans to write a sequel to Fucking Cake some time back, but never got to it, then there's this tumblr meme and Blackmorgan prompting me (shown above) and... well, obviously it had to be done. Much thanks to my so very busy beta, [Tysolna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna), who was so patient with my pestering. <3 Hope you enjoy it, dear readers.
> 
>   
> _[If you haven't read "[Fucking Cake](http://archiveofourown.org/works/258044)" you probably should before reading this fic, which is its sequel.]_  
> 

Sherlock originally had the idea when he and John were walking away from the crime scene which had resulted from their visit to a previous crime scene a week before—long story short: four murders solved, murderer found and apprehended with a minimum of damage to Sherlock and John, while leaving the murderer with a sprain and a minor but temporarily debilitating bullet wound. Thus, Sherlock had been striding with nearly ebullient satisfied glee and noted John striding right alongside him—no, strutting was a more proper term—shoulders back and chin up, both of them heading to a busier street in order to catch a cab.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked, a little hint of a teasing drawl to his voice. Given that it was the twenty-sixth of January and John was an incurable romantic, surely he would catch the reference a few days early.

John glanced up at Sherlock, already grinning, and tilted his head in that way that somehow made something in Sherlock’s chest tighten and his fingers itch to touch and hold on. “Starving,” John replied, showing he remembered. “Though,” he added wistfully, “got a craving for those profiteroles we had at that bizarre party we infiltrated last month. Remember? God, those were so good!”

“Would you rather have—” Sherlock began with raised brows, but John shook his head and interrupted amiably.

“No, no, I’m thinking Chinese or maybe Indian for dinner,” he said decisively, and then added, “but maybe we could get some later or on the weekend.”

“Maybe we could do,” Sherlock agreed generously. Before they’d caught their cab, a plan was already formulating in Sherlock’s head, and it was solidified before the cab reached their favourite Chinese restaurant. It was a very good evening. They stayed till closing time and beyond by a bit, coming away with leftovers bagged and a packet of almond cakes for later.

The rest of the evening went just as well, if not better.


	2. John

On the morning of the 29th of January, after a wonderfully decadent lie-in till nearly half past eleven, John went out into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. When he checked for milk, not certain of how they’d left it the night before, he saw a semi-translucent box of similar shape and size to a common bakery box. The blurry outlines of familiar shapes could only just be made out through the quasi-opaque plastic material. A slightly crooked little smile pulled his lips askew as he brought the box out and set it on the worktop with the plan to peek inside. He’d seen there was still some milk in the carton, which answered that question, and let the fridge door fall shut before reaching for the lid of the box eagerly.

“No, no, not yet, John,” Sherlock said from behind John, even as he reached past him to put one long-fingered hand firmly upon John’s own, pulling his fingers away from the front flap of the box’s lid. 

“You got me those profiteroles I was craving for our anniversary and I can’t even have any?” John challenged, though his smile hadn’t fully departed. 

Drawing John’s hand up to touch his lips to the first two knuckles, Sherlock’s slow, wicked smile grew against John’s skin, lightly pressed against Sherlock’s plush lower lip. “These are very special profiteroles, John. Not meant for breakfast or lunch, but for dessert; specifically, for tonight after dinner.”

“Oh?” John glanced at the box once more. “Special, you say?” Sherlock nodded, sucking very slightly on John’s first knuckle, thumb slipping into the curve of his palm and stroking lightly. A little whisper of arousal moved through John at the thought of that mouth’s recent activities elsewhere on John’s body. “What _kind_ of ‘special’ are we talking about?”

Smirking unreservedly, Sherlock drawled in a low, sultry voice, “Do you remember a certain… _cake_ … a couple years ago, John?”

John could practically _feel_ his own eyes dilate. “Oh, God,” he murmured in the unmistakeably positive. Of course he remembered that cake. That decadent chocolate cake with drug-laced chocolate icing which Sherlock had commissioned for a case. A decadent, drug-laced cake which had ended up being thoroughly debauched by Sherlock due to its exceedingly potent effects. John hadn’t intended to be there, but had come back early to find a nude Sherlock amidst a miasma of rich chocolate scent that had shot John’s libido through the roof. After some strange and surprisingly arousing cake-centric antics, Sherlock and John had discovered a mutual sexual attraction neither had previously acknowledged openly; it was one of the weirdest starts to a romantic relationship John had ever experienced, but it seemed sort of fitting that the first time he and Sherlock got off together would be utterly unexpected and bizarre. 

Sherlock was speaking even as John’s fond and arousing memories wandered through his head. “Though the original baker of those quite potent baked goods is in prison, he had a partner…” Sherlock’s deft fingers slid along John’s hand, then his forearm, pulling his arm up and over Sherlock’s own shoulder. John made a soft sound of curiosity and Sherlock went on. “She was well aware of the ‘special’ recipes and even willing to adapt them for a convincing price and the promise of an introduction to someone who could make excellent use of her skills, now that she is no longer hidden in her clever but short-sighted partner’s shadow.”

“You put her in touch with Mycroft, didn’t you?” John asked as if he already knew the answer.

“Not directly, but one of his people,” Sherlock temporized, releasing John’s arm once it was securely over his shoulder and then pulling John close. John indulged him by bringing up his other arm and burying the fingers of both hands into Sherlock’s bed-tousled hair. Sherlock’s eyelids lowered a bit and his tone grew smoother, trending back toward sultry again. “She will be well-paid and have a great deal of fun with a decent lab and test kitchen in which to work her own brand of… magic.”

“So, despite the money up front, she owed you a favour in the end, I take it?”

Sherlock sniggered softly, not quite blending into a giggle, but close. “In a very circuitous manner, I suppose so. Assuming you’re willing.”

“Circ—oh… ‘in the end’… right.” John dropped his forehead to Sherlock’s collarbone, a few tittering giggles escaping before they faded into a humorously disgusted groan. “Sherlock, oh. Really. That was so bad.”

Chuckling, Sherlock nuzzled at John’s nearest ear, playfully nipping the lobe. “You laughed.”

“Doesn’t change a thing,” John argued, tilting his head to allow Sherlock more access. “So, that’s going to be our romantic dessert tonight, eh?” 

“That’s my plan,” confirmed Sherlock, “now that we know what to expect of the chemical cocktail in each of these very, very special profiteroles.”

“Yeah, but how’m I to fuck a profiterole, Sherlock?” John asked, not quite able to keep the waver of humour out of his tone. “You did promise I could fuck the next cake, but since you didn’t get a cake…”

“We’ve a dozen chances to work out the best method, then.” Sherlock punctuated his sentence with a nipping suckle at John’s neck which sent a little flurry of chills down his spine.

Just then, the distinctive sound of Sherlock’s mobile could be heard from the bedroom, which was just down a short hallway from the kitchen. Sherlock’s text alert sound, specifically.

John turned his head to plant a kiss on the nearest portion of Sherlock’s head possible, somewhere near his temple. “I know, we’ll pick this up later,” he said fondly.

“Love you,” Sherlock whispered, squeezing John snugly before slipping away to check his mobile. He didn’t wait even a second for a reply—Sherlock already knew his feelings were reciprocated, deeply and often. 

John huffed out a single little breathy sound of amusement at his own thoughts, but then sighed as he heard Sherlock’s excited gasp of, _‘two corpses and three heads?’_ followed by Sherlock shouting John’s name. 

He turned to go get dressed. Any coffee or breakfast they had now would be on the way to wherever those corpses and heads were. It occurred to John that, anniversary of their first meeting or not, this was turning out to be more the sort of day that underscored his and Sherlock’s relationship and their life together as partners in every way—bizarre cases, extraordinary deductions, and both of them still running about madly after criminals of all sorts—but with a lot of loving affection and sex added to the mix in the last two years since Sherlock had brought home that particular cake for an experiment.

In a surprisingly few minutes, they were out of the flat and tramping hurriedly downstairs and out. 

The box of special pastries remained on the worktop, temporarily forgotten.


	3. Mycroft

Mycroft arrived at Baker Street ten minutes past noon. When no one answered his knock or the several rings of the bell that followed, he used his own passkey to enter and go up to 221B; one never knew what hour would see his brother and Dr. Watson asleep, awake, involved in some sort of bedroom acrobatics—dear Lord, if only they _would_ keep the sex in the bedroom—or possibly being held by gunpoint. Mycroft had seen or heard about them all, some in far more intimate detail than he ever cared to do; given that the way Mycroft first learned Sherlock’s and John’s relationship had finally reached a new level was by walking in on them ‘going at it like rabbits’, as Mycroft had termed it to his PA later with a bewildered headshake, and while in plain view on the sofa. The sitting room door hadn’t even been locked. 

Ever since that day, Mycroft had made it a point to try both knocking and ringing at the street door, as well as a solid knock upon the sitting room door, should it be closed when he arrived. Thus, he rapped smartly with the handle of his umbrella, waited to a count of ten, then did it again; followed by one final repeat. Only after the third pause with no sounds from inside, did Mycroft open the sitting room door—at least it was locked properly this time—and proceed cautiously inside.

A few minutes later, it had become clear that the two occupants had dressed hurriedly and gone out, very likely on some case or other. In the process of his brief reconnaissance of the flat, Mycroft saw the pastry box on the worktop in the kitchen, having smelled the sweet aroma hovering in the air near it as he passed. He knew what day it was, could deduce that the treats were a gift from Sherlock to John—Sherlock would have got the chocolate-covered versions for himself or from John—and that the two had probably been about to have some when they were called away. With a twitch of his lips and a lift of his chin, Mycroft had a very brief internal struggle with himself before his and Sherlock’s last snipe-fest came to mind and he sniffed with a subtle almost-toss of his head. A moment later, he carefully opened the box and took two of the delicious-looking profiteroles. Laying them upon a small plate from the drainer by the sink, Mycroft carried them with him to the sitting room, inhaling deeply of their rich, sweet fragrance.

Settling in Sherlock’s favourite chair, Mycroft checked his mobile for updates on New Scotland Yard’s current cases, particularly the ones which might require Sherlock’s expertise. One recent case, assigned to DI Gregory Lestrade, and another quick search garnered Mycroft a look at the last few texts sent from Gregory’s mobile to Sherlock’s. Nodding at his own correct suppositions, Mycroft took a bite of the first profiterole, making a soft humming sound at the amazingly vivid and delicious mouthful. He would have to discover where Sherlock purchased such luscious examples of profiterole perfection. 

After another bite, Mycroft tucked away his mobile in favour of chasing a bit of fluffy whipped custard filling along the corner of his mouth with the knuckle of his forefinger. A flush of warmth moved through him as he daintily licked the creamy smear from his skin, and then licked the bulge of filling that had oozed out of the pastry after his second bite. He could hardly recall a time when a fresh profiterole had been so astoundingly, decadently _good_ , and he boldly licked a big gouge through the filling, curling his tongue to act as a scoop, bringing the sweet, creamy, fluffy mouthful in. Another low sound, an actual moan this time, escaped him unhindered as he swallowed with eyes closed to focus only on the flavour and the mouthfeel. 

Loosening his tie and unbuttoning the topmost button of his crisp dove-grey shirt, Mycroft felt a sensuous thrill of enjoyment far stronger than he usually experienced from an illicit treat. His control, as a rule, was iron; it had to be. The only treats he allowed himself were few and far between, but when he indulged, he did so only from the finest sources. This, he decided as he licked another swath through the whipped custard, was one of the very finest, clearly. Sherlock would _have_ to tell him where he bought these profiteroles, even though Mycroft might need to purchase more than was wise. 

He took another bite, moaning and shivering at the bliss that burst in his mouth. “Mmm… just might have to buy stock in the business,” he almost crooned. 

The fabric of his waistcoat was pleasantly textured, the fine bumps and lines of the tweed not quite tickling his sensitive fingertips as Mycroft unfastened the buttons. All the while, the rest of his attention was focussed upon delicately poking his tongue-tip into the last of the filling, in the very last bite’s worth of profiterole. The soft consistency of the whipped custard—a distinctly different feel to whipped cream or a mousse—was alluringly entertaining to plunge his tongue into, though he wouldn’t have dared to indulge such a frivolous little urge had he not been wholly alone. Well, to be honest, he might not normally have done such a thing, even then, because it was a holdover from his pudgy youth, an oral fixation on what was now known more commonly as ‘mouthfeel’, and he had been strict in re-training himself away from all those habits that had contributed to the weight he had put on when the onset of puberty had only made his rather slow metabolism worse. 

Still… he was alone and had a little time… and he could always add a few minutes to the next week’s exercise regimen. 

Waistcoat lying open, Mycroft made a soft, pleased sound as he stroked a path down the thin, smooth fabric of his button-down, his gaze on the second profiterole. He recalled an occasion, over a decade ago, where he and a temporary sexual partner had tried whipped cream and chocolate sauce body decorations. It had been messy, as well as a bit silly, but Mycroft had secretly enjoyed indulging his damnable sweet tooth under the guise of sexual experimentation—as relatively pedestrian as such an ‘experiment’ may have been—as well as relishing the differing sensations of fluffy/sweet/cool, thick/rich/warm, and all the varying skin surfaces beneath. The memory seemed somehow much more arousing than the last time it had come to mind, though Mycroft guessed it must be due to his current mouthful of light pastry and whipped custard.

If only someone were here to share this with him, Mycroft thought a little wistfully, but he knew if someone else had arrived, he would have to hide this indulgent side of himself. Must be the ‘Ice Man’, of course, whether he wanted to or not. 

Only a minute or two later, idly flicking his left nipple through the fabric of his shirt on every other pass of his hand down his chest and belly, Mycroft mentally gave the bowfinger to the whole ‘Ice Man’ nonsense as he plunged his tongue deep into the second profiterole’s delicious filling, unable to hold back a soft moan. He hadn’t planned to tease himself, nor was he wholly unaware of the increasing snugness of the silk briefs within his perfectly-tailored tweed trousers, giving a slow little roll of his hips while another, more throaty moan rolled up from deep inside him; never pausing in the lascivious things he was doing to the delicious profiterole cradled in his hand. 

Until he heard the scuffing sound of a shod foot sliding to a halt on a hardwood floor, simultaneous with a choked-off sound dangerously close to a squeak. Mycroft opened his eyes to see DI Gregory Lestrade poised in the sitting room doorway as if another step was about to happen, but just… hadn’t. Brown eyes wide, grey-stubbled cheeks rapidly pinkening, and mouth fallen open just a bit, DI Lestrade—Gregory—looked a mixture of shocked, aroused, and horrified, as well as… surprisingly delectable.


	4. Greg

Getting caught in a truly astounding traffic jam—sod London traffic, anyhow—Greg had eventually flashed his warrant card at the traffic warden and drove half up onto the kerb to get round the cars trapping him in ahead, and then turned into the nearest alley to take a convoluted route around the area and back over toward central London again. It was frustrating and mentally draining, but he was used to that sort of thing as a copper and as someone who knew and regularly dealt with Sherlock Holmes.

Greg knew he’d missed Sherlock and John by a wide margin when he finally got to their place, but when he drove past 221 Baker Street, he absolutely couldn’t have missed the sleek dark sedan parked in its usual—illegal—parking spot. It had utter immunity to such things as traffic laws or parking codes, as Greg well knew. Still, Greg’s overall impression of Mycroft Holmes was… confusing… or possibly just the old cliché: _complicated_. 

Once upon a time Mycroft Holmes had been a bit frightening, along with intimidating and bloody irritating, but Greg had slowly learned how much of Mycroft’s coldness was a front and how much was genuine. There’s only so many times you can cross someone’s path in all your varied phases of life, knowing you’ve been most thoroughly _seen_ , and not eventually stop being able to work up a good level of worry. It became almost expected, being summoned to some previously unknown office or directed to go down to the ‘underground bunker/office’ and give reports or get orders couched as requests. As time went by, occasionally his arrival just happened to coincide with tea, then sometimes lunch or dinner; Mycroft seemed to order in fairly large quantities for one person, or so it had seemed. 

Lately, he and Mycroft met for one reason or another—always something to do with the Yard or Sherlock, or both—sometimes twice a month or more. Along the way, Greg had eventually begun to sort of look forward to meeting with Mycroft, curious which of his many perfectly tailored suits would be on display that day. He’d even looked up custom suits online, only to gape in astonishment at even the very bottom ends of what Mycroft’s suits probably cost. But, thing was, instead of putting Greg off, it only enhanced what had become something of a… well, not a ‘crush’ or ‘infatuation’, because what rubbish… but maybe the right word would be ‘fascination’. 

Despite there being no necessity for it, let alone the fact that he was expected at a crime scene, Greg was turning around and aimed at 221 Baker Street again without thinking too hard about it, and then pulling over to the kerb and parking. He then just… remained there. 

Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard, a mature adult male with an above-average intelligence quotient, in charge of his own team of clever and dedicated coppers… simply sat in his car and stared at the black door of 221 with a weird sort of fluttering in his gut. Why was Mycroft still there? Was he meticulously turning over Sherlock’s things ‘for his own good’? Could he be waiting for Sherlock to return? Not likely, given how long things could take in an investigation, and Mycroft Holmes would know that. So…?

“Get yer arse out of the car and find out, you tit,” muttered Greg testily, at himself, as he committed to his own stupidity and actually got out of the car. 

The street door wasn’t quite latched, which made Greg think Mycroft hadn’t meant to stay more than a minute or two, but Sherlock’s text from the cab he’d caught had been nearly half an hour ago now. No telling when Mycroft had actually arrived, though. Might only have been a few minutes before. Suppositions played through Greg’s head as he opened the door quietly—not being sneaky, just courteous, right?—and paused to listen for any signs of activity.

Despite the fact that he was gone well past the age for such nonsense, Greg had the random thought of Mycroft, naked on the sofa, caught in a secret kink he liked to indulge in his younger brother’s flat. Maybe desecrating his brother’s chair by sitting in it to have a wank. 

The brief, surprising, mental slideshow had Greg’s heart speeding up the tiniest bit, along with a certain stirring of things that ought to know better by now. Didn’t stop him continuing up the stairs, no matter how much he berated himself for even momentarily entertaining such imaginings, no matter how much the idea of discovering such a thing both appealed and alarmed him, because, as embarrassing as it might be, there would still be that little thrill of seeing the ‘real’ Mycroft. 

Greg had gradually become aware of a sweet smell, one that he couldn’t immediately identify—maybe pastry of some kind? It was warm and vanilla-y, with that certain hint of creaminess that told you there was going to be some kind of whipped cream or custard topping, or filling. It was almost nostalgic, like some favourite treat you’d almost forgotten how much you liked, something from way back in your childhood, Greg thought musingly. He avoided the two creaky steps the way he usually didn’t when he went up those stairs, because he generally wanted Sherlock and John to know someone was coming up—those two had the worst habit of _not_ closing their sodding door at the very worst times for anyone to come blundering in. 

Almost-chuckling, though still remaining silent, Greg now considered for a moment whether those ‘accidents’ might not have been accidents at all. “Kinky bastard,” Greg mouthed at a mental image of Sherlock’s possible reaction should he say it aloud to the git. Still smirking a bit as he reached the landing, he paused, partially for a breather, but partially because he’d heard a small sound from above. 

Considering his most recent thoughts, Greg sternly told himself that, no, of course he hadn’t heard a moan. Certainly not in Mycroft’s register. Or… had he?

Continuing up the last few steps, Greg found the door to the sitting room ajar, which made him pause to listen and look around. It could still be trouble, rather than some impossible wish-fulfilling goings-on; but, frankly, trouble was much more likely. The wonderful sweet and creamy scent of pastry blossomed more fully into Greg’s awareness, as if the bakery rack were right in front of him, the scent catching him square on with that slightly nostalgic feeling wrapped in a warm kind of comfort, the sort that made you want to relax and smile. Even the kind that made you long to be curled up with someone just as warm and smiling. 

The soft sound of fabric against fabric caught Greg’s ear just an instant before another, much more obvious, moan drowned it out. This had Greg pushing the door open all the way and getting an eyeful of the source of those sounds: Mycroft. Stopping short, almost as if he’d hit a wall, Greg heard a strangled little sound come from his own throat. If his brains hadn’t seized-up, he’d probably have been embarrassed.

Suit jacket splayed open, weskit unbuttoned and spread, as well, Mycroft lounged in Sherlock’s chair, eating what looked like the last half of a profiterole. Well, to be honest, it looked more like he was _eating out_ half of a profiterole; and it was more like he was sprawled in barely-contained decadence in Sherlock’s chair… _eating out that profiterole_. 

Greg’s throat went dry even as his mouth grew wet with a sudden rush of saliva. All those seemingly impossible imaginings from only minutes before returned to his mind at once. The incredibly in-control, even more coldly logical than Sherlock, Mycroft bloody Holmes shown to be a human after all; human and needy like the rest of them… like Greg was suddenly feeling right that moment. Mycroft’s own hand—nearly as long-fingered as Sherlock’s—elegant and finely formed, was caressing a line down Mycroft’s own lean torso. Well, lean except for one bit. Though Greg had suspected before, it was only now he saw the small rise of Mycroft’s belly, just that little bit of softness kept almost entirely hidden by his bespoke suits and rigidly precise posture. 

Out of nowhere, Greg wanted to expose that soft expanse and nuzzle into it, to bite teasingly and maybe suck a few marks there before seeing what sort of fun might be had a little lower. It wasn’t the first time Greg had experienced an appreciation for contrasting body traits, a lusciously rounded arse on a tall, thin bloke—Sherlock, for instance, whose amazing bum had given Greg a few ideas now and then. Or maybe a little bit of a belly on an otherwise fit person—John, as another example, the little bastard, on one of the few occasions he hadn’t been wearing sixty layers of clothing. There’d been even more times lately that Greg had wondered about Mycroft, just as he had earlier, but Greg was surprised at the strength of his urges in that moment, finally seeing the man showing actual proof of his own base urges. Greg hadn’t even been able to _say_ a thing, not a thing with words in, anyhow. 

Mycroft had heard him, though, heard Greg’s weird little noise. Where Greg might have expected a startled, embarrassed, or even angry response, instead Mycroft eyed Greg up and down as if imagining him without a stitch on. Greg couldn’t find it in himself to realistically object for an instant, since he was doing pretty much the same thing, in turn.

“Have you… _eaten_ … today, Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft asked, innuendo and interest very nearly blatant—still surprising, given Mycroft’s usual strict control, but immensely arousing for exactly the same reason. 

Very nearly flinging his trench coat off, Greg eyed the last bit of that very much abused profiterole being engulfed in Mycroft’s mouth with a slow push of his fingers, the tips glistening with what was no doubt the sticky remains of the filling Mycroft had been licking out of the pastry shell. Peeling off his suit jacket, his tie already looser than it ought to be, Greg approached the chair, but stopped at a brief, clear thought. Turning, he shut the sitting room door firmly and turned the rarely used lock with a quick, decisive twist before returning his full attention to Mycroft.

“Give,” Greg ordered in a low, rough-edged voice, reaching for Mycroft’s nearer hand as he went to the side of the leather-upholstered chair. 

Though his brows rose, flushed features showing curiosity, Mycroft surrendered his hand without hesitation or comment and watched as Greg drew it up to his mouth, sucking the first two fingers in with luxurious slowness. Mycroft gasped in a breath and expelled it in a low, barely audible, moan. Greg echoed it, just as softly, at the creamy sweet residue filling his mouth from Mycroft’s fingers, let alone at the reality of sucking on those long, elegant fingers. It was just as he’d imagined, both those distracting fingers and the sweet taste on them, though not enough to even begin to satisfy him. He wondered if there were more pastries to be had even as Mycroft’s fingers curved in his mouth, following the line of his tongue. 

“There’s more,” Mycroft said, voice lower than Greg had ever heard it and breathy with arousal. 

Releasing Mycroft’s fingers with a cheeky little pop, Greg grinned at the cleverness of the intriguing man. “Where? Kitchen?” Mycroft’s smug smile was a ‘yes’ that didn’t need vocalising. Greg let Mycroft’s hand slip gradually from his grasp as he moved away toward the kitchen.

The bakery box was obvious, still open, the smell coming from it deliciously intense. When Greg plucked out one of the profiteroles, immediately bringing it up to take a bite, he felt warmth behind him and the slide of hands coming around his waist and up his torso. The first bite was heady and rich, perfectly what his senses had been after since he’d started smelling the blessed things. Greg moaned in unhindered appreciation for the taste, as well as the sensation of Mycroft’s hands spread across his stomach and chest, and for the feel of Mycroft’s body pressed all along his back. “Best fucking profiterole I’ve ever tasted,” Greg declared in a voice thick with enjoyment and lust.

“They _are_ unbelievably good,” Mycroft murmured into the nape of Greg’s neck, sending shivers up and down his spine that ended, somehow or other, down at his crotch; his balls practically tingled as his already interested prick began to fill out in earnest. Clever, clever fingers began unbuttoning Greg’s shirt as he took a second bite, greedy, eager, licking his lips when the fluffy filling oozed out around his mouth. “No, no. Here, let me,” urged Mycroft, reaching up to grasp Greg’s tie and tug him around to face Mycroft, pastry still in-hand. 

Before Greg could ask what he wanted, though he had plenty of suggestions, Mycroft was flicking a bit of that creamy, custard-y fluff away from the corner of Greg’s mouth with his tongue. Then Mycroft’s tongue-tip was tickling along Greg’s lower lip, then his upper, clearly chasing the remains of Greg’s last bite. Before Greg could complain about the tease, Mycroft’s lips were coming to rest against Greg’s, nestling into the simplest of kisses, gentle and yet insistent. 

Mycroft made a quiet sound, a moan that was nearly a whine, and Greg pulled back, his free arm already around Mycroft’s waist without his even realising it. 

“Here,” Greg rumbled, holding the pastry to Mycroft’s lips, deliberately smearing some of the filling there, and lunging in before Mycroft could lick it away. He kissed the tasty cool treat right into another kind of treat: Mycroft’s warm and willing mouth. The tastes and temperatures blended and swirled between their tongues, sweet and creamy, cool to warm, and then hot. Both of them were moaning into each other’s mouths by the time the last of the sweetness had mostly dissipated, leaving them to explore and share their own tastes for a timeless span that could have been minutes or an hour. Greg didn’t bloody well care. 

“Bring the box,” Mycroft purred against Greg’s mouth, deftly stealing the partially eaten profiterole from him and biting into it fiercely as he stepped back. Greg caught up the box, eyes on Mycroft’s mouth as he swallowed and then licked out a big dollop of the whipped custard from the pastry. Flaunting the off-white little mound at Greg, Mycroft hinted at so much with the curve of his tongue and the heat in his eyes as he closed his lips and swallowed with an eyelash-fluttering moan. 

“Too many clothes,” Greg pointed out as Mycroft paused at Sherlock’s chair, turning as if he was about to sit, but Greg’s words halted him, just as Greg had hoped. Mycroft finished off the pastry in two gluttonous bites, so far away from his usual dignified self that it was a different kind of arousing, and yet not entirely a surprise to Greg, given his fantasies.

Licking his lips with a little shiver of what looked like the edge of bliss, Mycroft then affixed his grey-blue gaze to Greg’s own brown eyes, and there was heat aplenty in that heavy lidded look. “I agree. Shall we fix this egregious condition?” Mycroft was already unbuttoning the last few buttons of his shirt, tugging it out of his trousers with a quick gesture partway through the process. 

“Yes,” Greg almost growled, setting the pastry box on the side table and standing close to Mycroft, less than an arm’s length, before attending to finishing the unbuttoning of his own shirt. 

“Except the tie,” Mycroft said peremptorily as his gaze swept up from the pastry box to Greg and stayed there. Greg could see that the man’s pupils were enormous.

“You particularly fond of the tie, eh?” he asked with playful deviltry before loosening the tie just enough to free the collar of his shirt. 

Dilated eyes widening ever so slightly, Mycroft licked his lips and said in that deeper-than-normal voice, surprisingly steady and commanding, “Yes. Leave it on, if you please.”

“Done,” Greg replied, flinging his shirt off and starting on his belt. “Anything else?”

“No.” Mycroft’s shirt had gone and he quickly lifted each foot to slide off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor with soft dual thumps. He then stood upright to unfasten his trousers as he added, “Other than that, I expect you naked when I return.” He shucked his trousers and pants in one swoop, and then turned smartly to make for the kitchen, though the soft pat of his sock-covered feet told Greg he was continuing through—probably headed for the loo. 

Whatever his imagination made of that, Greg was, indeed, down to skin by the time Mycroft returned, except for the dark blue and green tie that Mycroft had asked him to keep on. Mycroft paused in the kitchen doorway, seemingly uninhibited by his own nudity—barring his dark socks—and his expression showed obvious appreciation of Greg’s nearly naked form, in return.

Teasingly, Greg cocked his head and asked with a raised brow, “Still in your socks, Mycroft?”

Without hesitation, Mycroft’s lips quirked a bit as he replied in smooth disdain, “Have you any idea what’s been spilled on these floors?” Greg, admittedly a little daffy on what must be a record sugar high and a great deal of lust to go with it, could only shake his head, a bit afraid to even try to imagine the possibilities. Mycroft nodded smugly, gesturing at his un-bared feet. “Exactly. Hence: socks.”

“We’ll play footsies another time, then. Meanwhile,” Greg said, a wicked grin curving his lips as he held out his hand with a glance at the pasty box resting upon the nearby side table, “bring those and…” he turned his hand and stroked the air as if he could stroke Mycroft’s bare skin from across the room, “all of that… right on over here.” 

Mycroft’s expression shifted to one of what Greg was sure meant surprise, but then it was more certainly a look of pleasure as Mycroft approached; the skin of his face and neck a little pinker and the angle of his fine-looking prick rather eager. A low, almost purring note underscored his voice as he came within arm’s reach. “Here we are, then. Have a seat, won’t you?”

Greg was in the chair without an instant’s delay for consideration, the leather not quite gone cold since Mycroft had left it—for which Greg was grateful—but it was a distant consideration just as quickly, because Mycroft was lowering himself onto Greg’s lap, bare body, bakery box, and all. “Fuck me,” Greg breathed, entirely unintentionally. 

Mycroft opened the bakery box, the backs of this thighs and surprisingly curvy bum very warm against Greg’s upper thighs, his hip pressing Greg’s increasingly hard prick against Greg’s belly. “At least we’re both on the same page there,” Mycroft drawled with blatant lust in his eyes and a positively wicked expression emerging on his face. Greg’s already happy-to-be-there cock hardened in lewd, but definitely sincere, welcome. 

Plucking out a profiterole, renewing Greg’s awareness of the delectable, delicious, almost sensuously rich scent, Mycroft touched the tiny opening where the baker had squeezed in the filling to Greg’s mouth. In so doing, he smeared its tiny extrusion of whipped custard over Greg’s lips, bringing Greg to automatically lick it off. Mycroft then stuck his tongue into the same little hole, holding Greg’s gaze as he slid it in and then out of the pastry to gather a bit of the sweet, creamy filling. Even as Greg swallowed what he’d swept away from his own lips, Mycroft leaned in and pressed his tongue against Greg’s lips this time, curled around that dollop of fluffy off-white sweetness. 

They both hummed into the kiss, Mycroft’s tongue caressing Greg’s, sliding in slowly while smearing that decadent sweetness all along the way. The kiss went deep, deeper, and Greg moaned in counterpoint to Mycroft, his own sounds a bit lower and rougher, while it was obvious Mycroft was still trying to hold back some of his reaction. He didn’t hold back on the pastry, though, and when they broke from their hotter than hell kiss, Mycroft held the profiterole out again for Greg to take a bite; and he didn’t hesitate to do just that. Just as scrumptious as before, the taste brought another moan out of him, barely discernable as different to the aroused moans of moments before. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” murmured Mycroft in belated reply, leaning in and nuzzling his way under Greg’s chin and into the curve where his neck met his shoulder. Hot then cool sensations ran up the sensitive skin at the base of his neck, Mycroft’s tongue tasting him before nibbling teeth shot goosebumps down Greg’s body.

“Yeah,” he breathed, hands wandering. How could Greg _not_ cup and squeeze that arse? Nor was there any reason he could think of not to circle a surprisingly pink nipple with his thumb before stroking across through springy dark-ginger chest hair to gently tweak the other. When the light pinch got him a stronger pinch of Mycroft’s teeth at his throat, Greg made a soft, pleased sound as he rolled the tiny nubbin of flesh, and let his other pinky finger drift to the top of Mycroft’s cleft. That brought a roll of Mycroft’s hips along with Mycroft’s fingers stroking through Greg’s own silver and grey chest hair toward his dark rose-coloured nipples, and Greg’s mouth was taken a second later in a suddenly enthusiastic kiss.

The more they kissed, the more Greg’s arousal ramped up—fucking hell, he hadn’t been this turned on since he was a randy teen having it off for the first time with another person instead of his own fist—and the way Mycroft was moaning and squirming, it was plain as day Greg wasn’t the only one. Panting a little with need, Greg growled into Mycroft’s neck, “I want to taste you.”

“God, yes!” breathed Mycroft, a shiver running through him strongly enough for Greg to feel it clearly.

“Right, gonna need more room, then,” Greg rumbled, nipping Mycroft’s earlobe sharply. “Grab the box.”

Though he did as Greg said, Mycroft frowned querulously—compared to his usual stern scowls it was blurred with lust, which was fine with Greg—but as soon as Greg slid one arm beneath Mycroft’s knees and wrapped the arm already around his torso tighter, Mycroft cradled the box against his middle and put an arm around Greg’s shoulders in anticipation.

“I _can_ walk,” Mycroft said with nothing like the asperity he probably meant to use as Greg grunted and rose with Mycroft in his arms. When Greg didn’t drop him, but made the short few steps to the sofa, Mycroft added in a husky tone, “Mind you, though, I can’t argue that this is quite impressive.”

“Bit hot?” Greg asked breathlessly—Mycroft wasn’t really _heavy_ , yet not as reedy as Sherlock. Even so, Greg had been hitting the gym regularly since his divorce, which meant he was just managing to hold onto his dignity and his deliciously naked burden. He didn’t bloody give a damn if he suffered for his impulsiveness tomorrow; it was brilliant today.

“Oh, yes!” Mycroft agreed, sounding a little surprised, as well as enthusiastic. Greg crouched slightly to lay him out on the sofa, snatching the box away to place it on the coffee table he’d had to skirt on his way across the room. 

Seeing how stiff Mycroft’s blushingly erect cock was, Greg grinned wolfishly and flipped open the box to pull out another profiterole. “Good,” he murmured a tiny bit smugly, just before squeezing a little of the thick filling out of the pastry, dribbling it along the line of Mycroft’s erection. “Always like to make a good impression.” In a moment, Greg knelt down and offered the slightly deflated shell to Mycroft’s lips with one hand, while gently scooping up Mycroft’s whipped custard-decorated prick and beginning to lovingly lick it clean. 

Gasping initially at the cold filling, then at Greg’s no-doubt contrastingly hot tongue, Mycroft groaned through a savage bite of profiterole while writhing beneath the enthusiastic flicks and flourishes of Greg’s tongue. 

“Give us a nibble,” Greg asked, lifting his head from his happy task. Mycroft unhesitatingly held the profiterole to Greg’s lips. Another bite of heavenly pastry and Greg then chewed with a hum of renewed oral pleasure, all the while cupping and rolling Mycroft’s plum-sized bollocks in one hand. With the other hand, he trailed his fingers up along Mycroft’s torso to tweak and roll each of his nipples in turn. 

Mouth full with another bite, Mycroft groaned thickly, body shifting with blatantly conflicting urges—hips thrusting a little, legs parting a bit, and a subtle rise of his chest into Greg’s touch. It was the stuff of his fantasies, but it was really, actually happening, and Greg hadn’t been harder in months, possibly years, as he proceeded to suck and lick and flick and nibble Mycroft’s hard, hot prick with hungry abandon. Mycroft’s sounds of pleasure, initially a little less than Greg thought they might have been, grew louder and lewder. Groans and hisses interspersed with muffled whines; all of this with increasingly rhythmic rolls of his hips, helping to slide his cock in and out of Greg’s eager mouth.

“Move a little… more this way,” Mycroft said, breath hitching halfway through when the head of his cock bumped into the back of Greg’s throat. Mycroft’s fingers brushed against Greg’s hip, along the curve of his arse, but couldn’t quite reach anything more sensitive. 

“Mmhm,” Greg agreed non-verbally, not even letting Mycroft’s prick slide fully out of his mouth while knee-shuffling over until those graceful fingers could reach Greg’s own rock-hard erection. He sucked Mycroft in with a vengeance the moment those same fingers wrapped around and started stroking. 

Greg couldn’t think of anything but the sweet aftertaste of the pastries blending with the salty pre-come from Mycroft’s prick. It was fairly average in girth and maybe slightly more than average in length as dicks went, but Greg had no size kinks and didn’t particularly enjoy choking, so he was more than happy in his task of sucking Mycroft off. Much more than. Every noise the man made, every movement, got Greg that little bit more worked up. The steady slide and squeeze of obviously talented fingers working Greg’s own cock drove him even crazier. 

“Yes, Gregory, oh, yes, so good,” Mycroft crooned, matching Greg’s pace, stroking down each time Greg sucked Mycroft in and up when he let Mycroft slide outward again. Greg moaned, grunted, huffed out gusty breaths, and even whined a few times as the pleasure ramped steadily upward.

Switching hands, Greg left off Mycroft’s nipples and cupped his balls, squeezing and rolling them in time with the bobbing of his head. Soon their sounds were almost in-synch, too, and neither of them seemed to give the slightest hint of a damn anymore about how loud they were being. Their dual vocalisations, the lingering scent of sweet, creamy profiteroles, and the musky aroma of their blended aroused sweat filled the room and Greg’s senses until he was dizzy with it. Until it was too much to withstand another moment and his orgasm rolled up through him like a wave of unbelievably strong pleasure, too much for the mere word to convey. 

Greg gave a muffled shout, still trying to keep a rhythm, but it seemed Mycroft had reached his own limit, as well, and his hips rose to plunge his cock deep as he squirted right down Greg’s throat. There was nothing for it but to swallow or choke, but Greg didn’t mind swallowing. It seemed Mycroft’s spunk was very nearly sweet, too, as if the luscious filling of the profiteroles had permeated his whole body, including his ejaculate. 

Letting Mycroft’s prick slide out of his mouth with a sighing moan, Greg rested his head on the man’s hip, Mycroft’s scrotum still cradled in his hand. He’d slumped down to sit on his heels, knees up against the base of the sofa, eyes closed as the bliss of afterglow simmered through his whole body. Fingers caught in his short-cropped hair, stroked a little, and then came to a stop upon his arm where it lay across Mycroft’s belly.

“God that was deliciously decadent,” Mycroft murmured.

“And the sex wasn’t half bad, either,” Greg quipped, lips a little numb, body half-melted with satiation, and he heard the most ridiculous little snigger, nearly a giggle, from somewhere beyond his head. Mycroft batted weakly at Greg’s arm, muttering something in a fond, chastising tone, but Greg barely heard it, already drifting off on the cloud of feel-good chemicals romping about in his veins, the smile still on his lips.


	5. Mrs. Hudson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! I'm so sorry to those reading along - I somehow thought I'd already posted, I guess? Life got a little overly busy/weird and I effed up, campers! Here's the last chapter and I hope you can all forgive the delay!

Mrs. Hudson was on her way back from the shops, her bags neatly tucked in the compact wire wheeled cart that had ‘mysteriously’ appeared in her foyer some months back. She had resisted using it at first—she might not be in her prime any longer, but she was hardly a little old lady! Eventually, however, she had a bad day with her hip and grudgingly dragged the damned thing along with her to the grocer’s; reluctantly, she admitted that pulling the miniature trolley along behind her was infinitely easier than lugging several heavy bags in her arms, or dangling from her hands while the handles cut into her skin. 

Just about the time Mrs. Hudson was within a few hundred feet of her door, she heard a familiar voice from above. “Yoo-hoo, Martha!” 

Mrs. Turner, next door, was hanging out of the first floor window and waving excitedly. Mrs. Hudson stopped on the pavement below and squinted up at her neighbour. “What’s got you so excited, ‘Tilda?”

“Come up, Martha,” urged Mrs. Turner, Matilda or ‘Tilda to her family and friends. “It’s important, luv!”

Sighing, Mrs. Hudson rolled the little trolley thumpingly up the five steps from the pavement to Mrs. Turner’s stoop, and the front door was opening before she’d even laid her hand upon the latch. “What’s got you all in a tizzy?” she asked upon seeing Mrs. Turner’s pink-cheeked, wide-eyed face.

“I had to catch you before you went in,” she explained as she leaned close, eyeing Mrs. Hudson’s building as she stage-whispered, “Your two lads left a while ago, but that man with the umbrella—you know, the fussy gent in the suits?—went in after they’d gone.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson waved Mrs. Turner’s words away irritatedly. “You know that’s just Mycroft, ‘Tilda. Sherlock’s brother.” 

“Yes, yes, but then that handsome Scotland Yard detective went in a little while after,” Mrs. Turner said insistently. Leaning in, she said in a conspiratorial tone, “And neither of them have come out again… and there’s been… _noises_ … since.”

Blinking at Mrs. Turner in surprise, it took Mrs. Hudson less than a minute to go from bewildered to cat-that-ate-the-canary smug. “Ohh, well, it’s about time,” she murmured, turning a gossipy grin on her friend. “That Detective Lestrade’s been pining after Mycroft for ever so long!”

“No!” gasped Mrs. Turner in delight. “You think…?” 

Mrs. Hudson nodded, still grinning, and they both shared a burst of girlish giggles. After a minute or two, Mrs. Hudson wiped at one eye and shook her head. “Oh, my. How long’s it been, then?”

“About an hour or so?” Mrs. Turner hazarded, glancing down at her bracelet-style wristwatch with its half-dozen dangling charms from her granddaughters and nieces. “The detective chap went in about an hour ago.”

“Plenty of time, then.” Mrs. Hudson sucked in her lips and also glanced in the direction of her building next door. “I really must put my things away, and… well, it would be such a hullaballoo if Sherlock came home and caught them at it.”

Mrs. Turner looked curious, but then let out a little enlightened, breathy sound and nodded. “You said before; they’re always squabbling, right?”

Sighing, Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Unfortunately. They’re like schoolboys, ‘Tilda. It’s often funny, but sometimes I just want to clip them ‘round the ears and make them just… _talk_ to each other like adults!”

Rolling her eyes heavenward, Mrs. Turner shook her head on a sigh. “Men? Not likely.”

“No,” agreed Mrs. Hudson, sighing again. “Still…” Her smile returned and she patted Mrs. Turner’s arm. “I’d best go and ‘accidentally’ interrupt them before Sherlock does. We’d never hear the end of it, I can tell you that.”

Mrs. Turner chuckled. “Would you like some tea first, luv?”

“Thanks, but no, dear.” Mrs. Hudson gave a minxish wink. “I’ll come back ‘round later, shall I? If there’s anything to tell, I’ll let you know then.”

“All right,” Mrs. Turner said with an eager nod. “I’ll look forward to hearing what happened.”

“Right then,” Mrs. Hudson replied, turning to go. Mrs. Turner even helped Mrs. Hudson get the trolley back down the stairs without bouncing anything out. “See you later, dear.”

When she cared to, Mrs. Hudson could be fairly stealthy, in spite of her hip, and she was quiet as a mouse entering her building. Easing the front door closed, she paused for a long moment to listen—the acoustics in the entryway below the stairwell were surprisingly good at conveying much of the sounds from the upper floors down to the ground floor—however, she heard nothing for the full minute she waited. Glad the wheels on her little cart were well-oiled, she went to her own flat and slipped inside to hurriedly put away the perishables. She knew how the universe worked and, sure as rain on a picnic, if she didn’t get up there and make sure there wasn’t anything to walk in on, then Sherlock would most assuredly _walk in on it_. 

Within ten minutes of entering her flat, Mrs. Hudson was hurrying up the stairs, not minding the creaking sixth step or the thirteenth one that gave an extra little ‘thunk’ when stepped upon by anyone larger than a child. She’d offered many times to fix them, but Sherlock had always insisted she leave them as is—his early warning system, he claimed—and Mrs. Hudson couldn’t really argue the point, as she listened for them, herself, whenever anyone but her boys were coming in or going out; of course Sherlock and John avoided them automatically. 

The door to the flat designated as ‘B’ at 221 Baker Street was locked, but Mrs. Hudson had the master key, and this was one thing she insisted upon: every lock must be kept oiled, because she wasn’t about to half twist her poor arthritic fingers half off on a sticking or rusty lock. So she had the door unlocked in a second and was slowly opening it with widened eyes and vast curiosity at what she might find.

Two shapes were lying entwined on the sofa, both naked—a loose, barely knotted tie and a pair of socks hardly counted as ‘clothing’—which allowed her to immediately identify the nude body with milk-pale, freckle-spattered skin and ginger-brown chest hair as Mycroft Holmes. What an amazing difference the truth of what lie beneath those prissy suits was in comparison to Mrs. Hudson’s previous mental pictures; she could’ve guessed he was related to Sherlock by his lanky form and that skin, though how Sherlock could tease his brother for being fat seemed a bit impossible. The other naked body on the sofa, skin a slightly darker shade, though not anything like ‘swarthy’, just a few shades less pale than Mycroft; well, she immediately knew who that was—DI Greg Lestrade—and didn’t he live up to her imaginings of what might lurk beneath his far more casual suits. Quite a nice bum on that one, Mrs. Hudson thought smugly, and entirely shamelessly, and that silver-grey hair had to be premature, because the rest of his body was rather well-kept, too. 

Mrs. Hudson was just about to clear her throat significantly when she realised that Mycroft had one eye slightly open—barely enough to tell, but Mrs. Hudson had learned long ago from Sherlock’s excellent shamming—and a wash of pink was creeping up his face and down his chest. She tried to look motherly and concerned as she whispered, “Sorry, Mycroft, but you might want to put a foot under you in case Sherlock and John return soon. It’s been over an hour and we all know Murphy’s law.”

Mycroft’s lips pinched in something like annoyance, and he freed up one hand from its perch on the curve of Greg Lestrade’s head, which was resting on his chest. He sighed and nodded, adding in a soft voice, barely above a whisper, “Understood. Some privacy, please, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson resisted a giggle, but she waved a hand and backed into the open doorway. “Right. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” Just as she was about to ease the door shut, she heard the street door being unlocked. Oh, dear. Popping her head in the door again, though not enough to actually see anything, she hastily called, “Woo-hoo! They’re here!”

Closing the door once more, Mrs. Hudson then hastily locked it before dropping the keys down her bra and settling them with a rubbing pat—that wouldn’t buy more than an extra minute, at best, if Sherlock remembered his keys, though he often forgot them. Through the door behind her, she heard tell-tale thumping and the rumble of agitated voices trying to be quiet with mixed success. Leaning against it, distractedly fanning herself, she tried to work out how to further delay her tenants.

It seemed only seconds before Sherlock and John’s voices downstairs in the foyer grew closer, the two discussing something about the obviousness of blood spatter and patterns in shattered glass—obviously to do with one of Sherlock’s cases. She could hardly sort the meaning out as she mentally scrambled for an excuse to keep Sherlock and John out of their flat for just a few more minutes.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock said curiously from the landing halfway up the stairs, having obviously just spotted her leaning there against his door.

Startled, Mrs. Hudson made a show of gasping her way into a little almost-shriek and slapping her hand to her chest. “Oh! There you are!”

John, coming up only a step after Sherlock, frowned up at her in concern. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked, blatantly slipping into ‘doctor mode’ at her reaction—no doubt she looked flushed, as well, given how hot her face felt—going up the stairs past Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson’s side. “Has something happened?”

“Someone’s been in the flat,” Sherlock declared, making Mrs. Hudson gasp again, since he seemed to just _appear_ next to John, so quickly and smoothly had he gone up the last few stairs. “Mycroft was here at some point, but I hardly think you’d be so flustered over _him_. Were there intruders, as well?”

Even as Sherlock was speaking, John gently gathered one of Mrs. Hudson’s wrists and rested his fingers on her pulse. After a moment, his brows rose. “Your heart rate’s a bit elevated. Take some calming breaths, okay?”

Making a show of breathing deeply, nodding, Mrs. Hudson was happy enough to let them fuss over her for a few minutes while the two ‘intruders’ sorted themselves out. She was opening her mouth to speak, planning to reassure the two men that the situation was under control—Mycroft ought to be able to catch on to whatever story she cooked up, but she wasn’t certain about Greg—and before she’d formed a word, there came the distinct sound of a male voice just on the other side of the door.

“Are these your pants?” Greg Lestrade’s voice, in fact. He might’ve been speaking quietly, but he was obviously very close to the door, as were Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and John.

John’s eyes widened and he murmured, “Greg?” in astonishment while Sherlock took a sudden step back, gasping as if frightened half out of his life… or horrified half out of his life. 

He then glared at the door behind Mrs. Hudson as if it had personally affronted him and insulted his mother, as well. “And _Mycroft_?” he breathed, eyes narrowing and nose wrinkling a bit—it was rather cute in a way, Mrs. Hudson thought in that disjointed way one does when all hell is about to break loose but you’ve spotted a pretty flower growing out of a crack in the pavement, just before the gunfire and bloodshed. 

Despite whatever charm there might be in his outraged expression, Sherlock reached past Mrs. Hudson to grasp the door handle—clearly planning to barge past her into the flat—but instead of turning, it only rattled a bit. Locked, of course. He dug a hand into his trouser pocket, but grimaced in irritation at the lack of keys to be had. 

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, hand to her chest to make completely certain there was no jingling from her own keys, still safely hidden. “You could go down and fetch the spare from my kitchen,” she suggested helpfully.

“No worries,” John said, patting Mrs. Hudson’s hand kindly before delving into his own pocket. “Got mine,” he announced, his own keys jingling as he held them up. 

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Hudson said on a resigned sigh. She could hardly blame the man for being orderly and mindful—the military, if not the medical training, had ensured John was both of those, as well as brave.

Sherlock cast Mrs. Hudson a narrow-eyed glance before stepping aside and gesturing at the door peremptorily. “Go on, then. Let’s have the proof.” He looked as though he might either vomit or possibly surrender to horrified tears as he added in a thick voice, “I do wish there really was something like brain bleach.”

One corner of his mouth quirking up a bit, John also glanced at Mrs. Hudson, though it was more a bid for assistance than the suspicion she’d seen in Sherlock’s fleeting expression. “Why don’t you stay here with Mrs. Hudson and let me suss out the situation?” He put his key in the lock, the other hand pushing Sherlock further aside, closer to Mrs. Hudson. She suspected he was more amused than horrified as he added in a sort of dry aside, “Wouldn’t want anyone to see too much and have an attack of the vapours or anything.”

“Really, John!” growled Sherlock in obvious offense. 

Mrs. Hudson noted that he didn’t return to his previous spot, though, and she hooked an arm through his, patting it reassuringly with her other hand. “He means me, of course, dear,” she said, but she didn’t believe it, nor did she think Sherlock was buying it, either. Yet, he let her lean on him a bit, which she hardly needed, except that her hip was beginning to ache with all the standing.

“You could walk in on an orgy in full-swing and hardly bat an eye,” Sherlock rumbled to Mrs. Hudson in an undertone, leaning his head down just a bit. “Unless they were damaging the furnishings.”

Mrs. Hudson sniggered a little, squeezing his arm—he wasn’t half right, given the things she’d seen in her day—but that was mostly to hang onto him, really. “Naughty boy,” she chided, 'tsk'ing at him as John gave a quick two raps on the door as he turned the now-unlocked handle.

“Hope everyone’s decent,” he said briskly, humour underlying his tone. “Coming in anyway.”

Though she only got a glimpse of Greg half into his suit jacket and Mycroft beyond him buttoning the uppermost button on his waistcoat, Mrs. Hudson felt a shudder go through Sherlock.

Looking upward, he intoned plenty loudly enough to be heard inside the flat, even if John had let the door fall to, “Oh, god, my own brother! Defiling my flat and my detectives!”

Even Mrs. Hudson heard Mycroft’s sharp, impatient sigh and she imagined she could very nearly hear him rolling his eyes, as well. Both of the Holmes boys, such drama queens! Tightening her lips, Mrs. Hudson fought back more laughter as she patted Sherlock reassuringly. 

Inside, she clearly heard Greg Lestrade harrumphing his way through a very blatantly embarrassed apology, after which she heard John give a cut-off curse and then there came some hurried thumpings and she heard the windows being thrown open. 

“Of course,” Sherlock snarled, starting forward toward the door, but Mrs. Hudson hauled back on his arm to stop him barging into the flat—she still remembered the last donnybrook between the brothers, although John hadn’t been there that time—and she was gratified that he let her hold him back. “He got into the profiteroles.”

“The what?” Mrs. Hudson echoed, confused.

Just then, the door swung abruptly inward and Greg, followed immediately by Mycroft, hurried out and headed for the stairs like their arses were on fire, both pink in the face and avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. 

Mycroft mumbled, “Apologies. My deepest apologies,” as he went past. 

Greg nearly whispered a hoarse, “So sorry. ‘Scuse me,” but didn’t stop, either. 

Mrs. Hudson felt Sherlock go rigid—probably as much in astonishment as affront—and then John emerged from the flat, right on Mycroft and Greg’s heels.

John’s expression was thunderous as he said, “I’d strongly advise you both go straight home and call it a sick day. Shower, change, and have a kip. Serve you right if you have massive hangovers.” He stopped on the second step down from the landing, crossing his arms over his chest and calling after them scathingly, “In your _brother’s flat_ , Mycroft. And Greg, _on duty_. Really now!”

Mrs. Hudson blinked, both at John’s angry tone and body language, as well as the shock of Mycroft’s cowed demeanor and actual apologies. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

John’s expression lightened, practically like a switch being thrown, and he returned to the landing with a smirking sort of smile. “They’ll be fine, Mrs. Hudson.” He looked up at Sherlock and shook his head, expression turning wry. “They ate every last one.”

Sherlock huffed out an angry breath and started to slide his arm away from Mrs. Hudson’s, saying, “That greedy, fat pig! I’m going to stuff that umbrella of his—”

“Hey, hey, now,” John cautioned, breaking off Sherlock’s threat. Mrs. Hudson had no doubt where it had been going, anyhow. Catching Sherlock’s nearest hand, John tugged it into both of his own, tilting his head to catch Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m the one who had his anniversary present snaffled. They’re going to pay plenty with embarrassment and trying to sort out what happened.”

Though he scowled down in the direction his brother and Greg had gone, Sherlock’s expression slowly shifted to something more like evil glee, and his voice was deep, honeyed wickedness as he purred, “As emotionally constipated as my brother is? It will be pure _torture_ … oh, John, I really like the way you think.”

John beamed, though it was a tad wicked about the edges, too. He then turned to Mrs. Hudson and put a kind hand to her shoulder. “Sorry about the ruckus, Mrs. H. They… well, there was a sort of… I guess you could say a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t worry, she knew,” Sherlock said dismissively, turning a sardonic expression on her and she gave an apologetic wince-smile. 

“I tried to get them out before you came back,” she admitted. “I was away when they arrived, though.”

Looking between them in surprise and dawning suspicion, John asked warily, “Have they done this before?”

“Oh, no, no!” Mrs. Hudson hurried to deny. “Not that I’ve ever known about, at least. Of course that brother of yours makes free whenever… well, you know,” she added tetchily, but then stopped herself at a returning spark of ire in Sherlock’s eyes; best not to throw more petrol on the flames. Reluctant to miss any exposition, but feeling the ache in her hip and her feet from the trip to the grocer’s and standing about on the stairs, Mrs. Hudson gave a sigh. “I think I’d best leave you two to sort things out. I might just go have a lie down.”

Both John and Sherlock made concerned agreements, John accompanying her down the stairs and checking her pulse again before wishing her a nice rest. She thanked him and went on, though she could hear them speaking above her as she went to her own flat, taking care to move extra slowly and to linger at opening her door and going inside.

“Sorry about your present, John,” Sherlock said with genuine contrition in his tone. 

Still on the last few steps up, John made a dismissive snorting sound before replying, “We’ll get another batch or something.”

“I’ve a better idea, actually,” Sherlock countered smoothly, voice gone all honey and smoke—that young man was dangerous when he wanted to be—and he went on almost too quietly for Mrs. Hudson to hear, “Why don’t we just order another chocolate cake.”

“Like _that_ one? Could you?” John asked, sounding pleasantly surprised. 

“I could and I will,” assured Sherlock, and there was a smug smile in his tone. “After all, it’s your turn to—” 

The closing of their door cut off whatever it was John’s turn to do and Mrs. Hudson wore a musing frown as she went into her own flat and closed the door. What would anyone need ‘turns’ for with chocolate cake?


End file.
